


Promise

by Ephermeralk



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 9.23, Angst, M/M, Major character already dead, Necrophilia, bottom!Dean
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-23
Updated: 2014-07-23
Packaged: 2018-02-10 01:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2005587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ephermeralk/pseuds/Ephermeralk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Sam brings Dean back to the bunker to clean up his brother’s body, he can’t help but take a bit of extra comfort for himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Promise

**Author's Note:**

> **A/N:** This was written for the [](http://spn-otpkink.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_otpkink**](http://spn-otpkink.livejournal.com/) meme for the prompt: _After 9.23 Sam brings Dean back to the bunker and cleans him up. He can't bear to let go - so he fucks him just one last time while Dean isn't quite cold. Up to writer if Sam is in denial about the death or not, and whether demon!Dean is conscious for any part of it and there's any repercussions._
> 
> Thanks go to [](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/profile)[**sleepypercy**](http://sleepypercy.livejournal.com/), who doesn't freak out when I ask her, tentacles? Zombies? Non-con? Necrophilia? for the beta. Love you, bb! Extra, extra, thanks, hugs, kisses, etc., go to ALL the wonderful people who left me comments on this when it was posted anon! You are all the best for making me think that this was worth posting to my journal. I have since added about 700 words after the general cleanup that was necessary...

Sam’s arms are shaking with exertion by the time he gets Dean’s body back to the bunker. He’s got Dean’s blood all over his chest; it had spilled out of his brother back when his heart was still beating. The organ had sped up furiously right before Dean had slumped over in Sam’s arms, trying every last trick in the book to get his blood to circulate. Instead, it found its way, red and wet—so wet—out of Dean’s chest and onto Sam. By now, it’s started to pool in his brother’s limbs. Congealed instead of flowing. It’s thick, not quite so slippery anymore, Sam notices as he arranges Dean on his bed.

He walks into the bathroom then, searching for towels. He’s got to clean Dean up. To make his body perfect for after Sam makes the inevitable deal. He doesn’t want his brother waking up to blood covering his body. Doesn’t want Dean to suspect that he was willing to sacrifice his soul, once again. They’ve both been down this exact stretch of road before, but as long as Dean’s not breathing, Sam doesn’t care what the consequences are. Consequences can go to hell along with him because Sam’s willing to deal.

Stripping the dirty shirt off his own shoulders, Sam can’t quite bring himself to wipe his brother’s blood off his own body. He wants to keep Dean with him, touching him, present on his skin, for as long as possible. Hopefully until Dean wakes up, blissfully unaware that he’d died.

Sam will save him. Sam’s got to save him, because Dean’s his _brother_ , and the world can’t continue without Dean in it. The world needs Dean Winchester to exist. And Sam needs his brother.

By the time that Sam’s done washing Dean, making sure that each freckle is clean to the point of almost shining, he’s crying once again. The tears splash onto his brother’s skin, rolling off Dean’s body. He keeps waiting for Dean to tell him to stop crying, already. Big boys don’t cry. That’s what Dean had always said.  
The longer he looks at his brother, the more Sam’s eyes keep deceiving him, hallucinating small movements. His brother’s hand twitching. His chest rising with the inhalation of air. His eyelashes fluttering after Sam had closed them shut. He’d taken one final, long look into vacant green eyes. Eyes that he didn’t recognize, eyes that don’t belong to Dean, now that his brother’s soul isn’t there.

“Dean,” he says, speaking for the first time since his brother had bled out in his arms. “You gotta come back, man. I _need you_. Who’s going stop the end of the world with me? Who am I going to tease about eating too much junk food or watching Japanese porn, if you’re gone?”

Dean doesn’t answer.

Sam maneuvers himself in between his brother’s splayed legs then, pressing kisses against Dean’s pale skin, soaking in his scent and savoring the way that his body continues to emit warmth. It still feels—still smells—like Dean, not fully blemished nor turned stale and sour by death. He leans in to kiss his brother’s lips, hoping that he might, by some miracle, come back to life. Weirder things have happened to Sam. Unfortunately, not this time. Dean’s not a Disney princess, and despite every ounce of love and devotion that Sam pours into the kiss, Dean stays dead.

It should make Sam furious. Not with Dean, not ever with his brother, not when it really _matters_ , but with everyone else—angels, demons, the stupid people who are always willing to believe anything but the truth, God, and most of all, the most culpable: himself. So many beings who could have stopped this, and yet Dean is lying dead in front of him. Underneath him.  
Sam should really give Dean a little peace and quiet in his death and storm out of the room to summon either Crowely or Castiel. Get the metaphorical ball rolling. But his rage is currently simmering on the back burner of his mind, leaving him to deal with his grief. He doesn’t really know how. Dean’s always been the one to comfort him. Always. Through both their parents’ death. Jess. Bobby. Ash. Ellen and Jo. Rufus. Kevin. Almost every one they know is gone, and Sam can’t handle it. Not without Dean to take care of him. To hold his hand under the night skies as easily as he’d spread his legs or slip Sam a knife.

Sam’s moving back and forth, rocking himself gently into Dean. Comforting his body, his soul, with a calming, primal motion. He’s trying to self-soothe in the absence of Dean’s words and muscle movement. It’s not about sex, Dean has never been about _just sex_ , so Sam’s surprised when the beginning of a hard-on starts to nudge the inseam of his jeans. It’s awful, horrible, vile even, because Dean’s dead, his brother is _dead_ and Sam’s turned on, but his brain still can’t quite grasp the reality and Sam’s muscles are like memory foam. They remember the feel of Dean’s body underneath his like they fucked last night instead of last year. And what Sam wants now is everything that he hasn’t allowed himself to have in months. His brother.

“Hey Dean,” Sam says softly, licking a gentle stripe up his brother’s throat. The cartilage is still pliant, giving way underneath Sam’s tongue. “I’m sorry I couldn’t get there sooner. I’m sorry I couldn’t gank Metatron like the fucking no-good supernatural piece of shit that he is.”

He kisses Dean everywhere but on the mouth. It’s no longer the perfect shade of salmon pink that Sam’s always loved to tease his brother about. Even in the coldest of conditions, Dean’s mouth had never been ash-tinged like it is now. The gentle kisses he presses into Dean’s cheeks stick, leaving imprints of Sam’s lips on his brother’s face, and in the background, he can hear Dean—or is that the springs of the bed?—groaning, feel his legs spreading wider. The longer he kisses Dean, the more the pressure in his pants becomes too much; Sam has to sit up and rock back on his heels in order to unzip his pants. He doesn’t take them all the way off though, just slides them down to his thighs. He does the same to his brother.

“Remember when you used to do that for me, Dean? Button my jeans, tie my shoelaces.”

Dean’s lax head falls slightly to the side, as if he might be agreeing with what Sam’s saying. As if his corpse remembers for him. “I used to hate that, you know. Wanted to be independent. To do everything by myself. I wanted that for a long time. But I don’t—not anymore. It’s like you said: ‘ain’t no me, if there ain’t no you.’”

Guilt pushed to the side, stuffed deep inside of him, Sam lowers himself back down, covering Dean’s too-still body, rubbing his hard dick against Dean’s lax one. Every contour of Dean’s body contains history, over thirty-years of shared memories.  
“And remember that night in Montana, when you drank too much at the bar and couldn’t come? I think I sucked your dick for almost an hour before you realized you literally weren’t able to get it up.” Sam bites the soft skin covering the hard line of his brother’s collar bone, needing to release his pent-up energy in more ways than one. He’s not gentle; he doesn’t need to be. This time, one amongst a host of others, Dean doesn’t give him lip for it. “I still maintain that was a goddamn awesome blowjob.”

Once the levee breaks, words and reminiscences keep flowing out of Sam’s mouth. Dean doesn’t speak. Not once. It doesn’t seem too unusual; no matter how sharp his brother’s tongue could be, he’d always been quiet in bed. Never letting out much more than a “Sammy” or an occasional “please” if Sam had teased him for too long.

When the words finally stop, the room falls silent. Well, almost silent. Only the sound of the creaky bed springs and Dean’s limbs as they move against the sheets ring in Sam’s ears. He can’t stand it; it’s stifling borderlining on oppressing, and he looks to his brother, begging him to speak. To say something, anything. He can’t quite face the way Dean’s lips have parted in the midst of his humping. Like he wants Sam to lick the blood out of his mouth. So Sam flips his brother onto his front. On his stomach, it seems more like Dean might be asleep rather than dead. Waiting for Sam to fuck him hard enough to wake him up.

“If you’re still here, I mean, obviously not in your body, but still _here_ , I’m sorry. But I need this. We need this. I need you to give me the strength to continue, Dean. To fight for you. To look for you until I get you back into this body. Like you’ve always done for me.”

Sam’s hand treads down the curve of Dean’s spine, not stopping until the slope changes just south of his tail bone. He’s more careful than he usually is (Dean’s always liked it rough) when he spreads his brother’s ass and tests the resistance. Lubing two fingers up and pressing in until he’s past the second knuckle. It’s relaxed, as if Sam had fucked him a few hours earlier, so he pulls out his fingers and lines up cock. He rubs soothing circles into Dean’s flank on reflex. The slide in is gentle. Like Dean is welcoming him inside. Pleasant and warm, rather than tight and scorching like Sam is used to. Dean isn’t doing any of the work, _can’t_ , his brain nicely reminds him, so Sam has to put in all the effort. Has to use his already tired muscles which are still trembling from carrying 190 pounds of his brother back to the bunker.  
“Alright,” he tells Dean. “I’m all the way in.” Dean always likes to know when Sam’s bottomed out. So he doesn’t have to focus on deep breathing anymore. He can relax then, knowing that he’s already taken every last inch of Sam.

Although could set up a normal rhythm—one that’s hard, fast and sure to get both of them off quick, and maybe he should because now that he thinks about it, he doesn’t want to be inside his brother when rigor mortis starts to set in—Sam sets a slow pace. Taking his time and enjoying the soft feel of Dean’s insides on his cock. Pushing all the way in and then stopping to grind. Not really thrusting so much as keeping himself buried in his brother’s body. Feeling the press of his balls against his brother’s, even if their usual, near-electric skin-to-skin current isn’t there anymore.

“I’ve got you, big brother,” Sam says, starting to go faster. He can feel himself begin to leak from the inside, covering his dick with pre-come every time he pulls out. Enhancing his perception, lighting the nerves on his foreskin one by one until he’s close to chasing his own orgasm. Lost inside Dean and begging not to return. “I won’t let you leave this world. Not without me by your side. Do you hear me, Dean? Ain’t no fucking way you’re getting off this easy.”

Sam swears for a moment he feels a rush of cold air against his back and through his hair, but when he says, “Dean?” nothing happens. The EMF in the corner hasn’t beeped at all. Just another hallucination. Another unfulfilled dream.

He fucks his brother with determination then, full of resolution that Dean’s not going to stay dead as long as Sam’s alive to have a say in it.

Dean’s body bounces beneath him, still grey, still relaxed. As if Dean’s enjoying everything that Sam’s giving him. Just like in the good old days. Back when life was about saving people and hunting things. About Sam and Dean and the Impala on a long stretch of highway.

Sam feels the beginnings of his orgasm, that wonderful sense of need and lust and bonding as he speeds up his thrusts. His hips are moving erratically now, and Dean’s body mimics his own with sloppy, uncoordinated movements. Making the pit of his stomach tingle before moving up his spine and back down, erupting out of his dick. Filling up the inside of his own dead brother. It should be enough to make him retch, but instead he’s stunned at the intensity of his orgasm. He’s never had one quite so violent, so intoxicating, except for maybe those when he was drinking demon blood. Sam doesn’t want to think of the implications.

Now that his physical need for Dean has been sated, the urgency of getting his brother back into his pliant, fucked out corpse returns. He pulls out of his brother’s body and zips up both of their jeans with a utilitarian purpose. He doesn’t clean the spunk that’s making its way out of Dean’s body. He wants it to be their new start when Dean wakes up. A promise made from sex and blood that Sam’s with him until the end. The real end, not this purposeless death, simply one out of a handful that his brother has managed to attract over time.

He turns Dean back over onto his front ignoring the painful ache in his arms and straightens out all the wrinkles in his brother’s shirt. On his plaid jacket. Making sure that Dean is absolutely perfect. “As you were,” he mutters. Pressing one last kiss to Dean’s forehead, one last trail of his hand over Dean’s non-beating heart, Sam whispers, “I’ll see you soon, Dean. I promise.”


End file.
